I Love Paris...

... all the time.

Apart, from the dog-poo which is EVERYbloodyWHERE.

Took Other Half to the Romance Capital of the world, and instead of needing rose-tinted glasses I'm sure that dog-poo warning goggles should be issued as de rigeur. Or all the tourists could go on strike and demand that those bloody dog owners carry around plastic bags to scoop up their mutt's mess, but then I suppose that they'll go on strike and then the whole world will come to a standstill. Howevre, to be fair we stayed in a nice posh bit of Paris (Neuilly) where the streets were lined with flower beds and the dogs were very well trained to poo in the beds by the flowers rather than on the flowers or on the pavement.

Paris was great. Met up with some friends and practised my French. Ate lots, drank lots, walked across Paris while Other Half kept pointing at signs and making me translate them to him, using the Latin Root, and other grammatical nuances and insisting that it was good for me for my upcoming French Exams, and me getting more and more blasé by the minute. I pointed out that my French was very well merci beaucoup and that the previous day after we'd arrived and gone out with French I was holding up incredibly well.

Later on we went to another restaurant and I ordered a table. But I got stuck. And it was only then that I realised that my fluency in languages followed an exponential curve with the amount of alcohol consumed: that there comes a point in the evening that my fluency in French is at the same maximum level as my alcohol intake before I start speaking utter gibberish.

However, all in all it was superb.

Off to crack open a sneakily smuggled bottle of Bouilly.

I've Been So...

... excited.

Over the last few weeks I've made surprises for Other Half's birthday that will all begin this evening. I've longed to blog about it but have been very careful not to or surprise might be ruined. Anyway, I figured that since he can't surf the web at work anymore its not too much of an issue, so I'll let you in on the secret: its going to be a Surprise!

This weekend we're going on a Secret Destination trip. Over the last weeks Other Half has been pestering me on our destination, dropping in comments like 'I have a vague idea' and generally pissing me off in his eagerness to ruin the surprise. I on the other hand have been bubbling away with pent up excitement that I've had to control myself dreadfully in case I let the proverbial Siamese Cat out of the Gucci Handbag.

The other night we had a power cut. It was an extremely bizzare experience, with only our block affected. The shop downstairs that spans two blocks was half in darkness and half in light. After the lights went out so suddenly, we decided to abandon our grand plan of Working All Night after Big Flatmate decided to jump ship for his friend's flat where he said he was going to 'study'... Small Flatmate and I dispensed of all pretenses and went straight for the wine.

Before that however, I had to endure an absolute debacle over who our electricity provider was. On our studenty Pay-As-You-Go meter with the little electronic key, the balance screen was blank, indicating that it wasn't our fault. So as on the meter it said London Electricity, I rang them up. Now, the most annoying thing, ever is to be put on hold and told that you are crawling up a queue that loops around and around. The even more annoying thing is the muzak that they have tinkling away in the background while smugly announcing that you have Moved Higher in the queue but It Still Isn't Your Turn Yet.

However, the most, the absolutely most annoying thing was the announcement that the banal voice made. Instead of being busy, the Customer Service Agents were Extremely Busy. And I was reminded again and again by the recorded unfriendly annoying voice accusing me of ringing them at 8pm and that their only solace was in telling me that it was Not My Turn and they were VERY VERY EXTREMELY BUSY.

Anyway, I'm ranting. After what seemed like an eternity in darkeness a Northern voice came on the line and after taking my details promptly announced with barely disguised glee that London Electricity only provided the meter and that the electricity was provided by a completely different holding. After giving me a number to ring the phone was slammed down on me.

So I rang the other number that had about a million options and every one I selected returned the same result, telling me that the services were only available from 8am to 8pm and could I please ring back tomorrow when they would be pleased to assist me with my query. Query? What fucking query? I wanted to complain, not ask politely where my sodding electricity had gone. After what seemed like an eon and at risk of developing RSI with the constant jabbing of the redial button and selecting option 9,873,324, A very nice sympathetic lady came on the line and told me what the problem was. Apparently we're on a parallel line with the tube station and that the station had blown a fuse and it had affected all dwellings on that parallel line. As she was logging my complaint I moaned to her about how my dinner of grilled pork chops was half done in the electric oven and how I'd starve that evening. She made the appropriate tut-tutting noises and 5 minutes later I got off the phone and felt quite pacified.

Later on while I was rescuing my half grilled dinner and decided to fry on the gas stove by candlelight, Other Half rang.

OH: How are you?

Me: I am EXTREMELY busy trying to rescue my dinner by candlelight. Goodbye.

I don't think he saw the funny side of it.

Today...

... I was about to post another rambling anecdote in the miniscule life of This Little Monkey.

However, something I read in the papers has made me wet my pants. The sheer farcical nature of the renaming of Danish pastries in Iran in response to satirical cartoons about the Prophet Mohammed.

May I please have a Rose of the Prophet Mohammed?

I leave you with that for the day...

Do We Need Another Lawyer?

...

...

Okay, I've officially lost my motivation. This afternoon I am going to head to the gym to perform the ritual of re-motivating myself which includes lots of bench presses and running a couple of miles, sacrificing myself and my body in the hope that those bloody advisors in Glamour Magazine are right in that a Happy Body leads to a Happy Mind.

One of the things that I've been angsting over is my future. Following a very nice and polite letter from one of the universities I've applied to for medicine saying that I basically Wasn't Good Enough, I've lost all drive and motivation. The next thing was after seeing a Career's Advisor and being told that I wasn't really cut out to be a doctor anyway and should consider another industry...

So, I've been thinking long and hard and done the requisite readthroughs and made the enquiries and done more thinking, in which time my actions have been translated differently by everyone. Other Half thinks I've been uncommunicative and that I've been shutting him out, my flatmates think I've got the work bug and that I've just locked myself away working on stuff when I've been playing online games to focus, and others generally haven't heard from me at all.
To this, I apologise to everyone:

I am going to do Law.

Dog Food...

Out of curiosity, I bought some Beef Jerky that was paraded amongst the Valentine's staples earlier.

I like biltong, which is a South African bush deer delicacy. I thought that Beef Jerky might resemble it.

I think this is what dog food is supposed to taste of. I might throw it out of the window onto the courtyard below as a treat for the Neanderthal's dog...

...yuck...

Happy Commercial Bollocks...

... to everyone.

Today is Saint Valentine's Day, which is a celebration of love and passion. I am currently sat at a computer, temping on reception and playing a game which involves shooting little hearts and boxes of chocolates using Cupid's bow. That is the extent of of my Valentine's spirit. I am extremely disheartened by the complete and utter commercialism that has become this sacred day of love.

I popped into Tesco's to buy a sandwich earlier on. Normally I wouldn't bother with Tesco's because I don't like them as they represent the total evil that is capitalism in the supermarket trade, slashing down prices at the expense of the poor farmers and creating a price and product war that is crippling the economies of third-world countries. But they had sandwiches for 99p. And I'm on a tight budget. A VERY tight budget.

Anyway, while queueing at the checkout I noticed that on the way to the till there were lots of red boxes of chocolates and roses and even pink Valentine's socks on display, lewdly prostituting themselves to the poor harassed shoppers, with fat cherubs with 'come hither' looks, declaring true love through the medium of caramel centres and whispering sweet nothings with baby's breath (which is wonderfully 80's).

And I suddenly felt very ill.

Perhaps it was all that red that my retinas suddenly felt assaulted and made me feel dizzy, or perhaps it was the mere fact that all the saccharine sweetness had permeated my steely, unloving defence and Cupid had out of malice shot me an arrow laced with ill-feelings to tell me'you will love, damn you'.

And so I texted Other Half with the following message: Happy Commercial Bollocks to you.

And he responded by saying that he was going to take the presents back.

Damn. I like presents.

PS: My home broadband system is down and as a result haven't been able to post. I'm hoping that Telewest sort it out v soon.

PPS: My muse and inspiration is now a grandmother. Its all feeling very Mrs. Robinson in a weird way, but I am very happy for her...

I Am Waiting...

... for the phone to ring.

More specifically I am waiting for the receptionist at the clinic to ring me back after her promising to do so to book me in with the doctor so I can moan about this blasted flu that won't shift, and while I'm there I'll just make a few more observations about my internal or external workings which the doctor will then misdiagnose as something different and then prescribe me something that is totally useless.

I have so far been to see 5 doctors about a skin complaint. It takes the form of mild eczema, but I've been diagnosed with psoriasis, scabies, shingles, ectopic eczema, and dermatitis. All which would be very well if not for the fact that the creams that I am then given are all the bloody same. and I still get the occassional rash.

I'm not very happy at the moment. I need to get this sorted out quick.

*scratch scratch*

One Thing The French Did Right...

...was to encourage to use of suppositories.

Well, I don't normally think of using them as on this soil sticking things in your bum when things are supposed to come out is a definite no-no, unless otherwise stated, like taking temperature (for babies) and, well, you know...

Anyway, after all the coughing and spluttering and generally feeling like some wild beast has shat in my mouth along with my limbs being heavy and joints aching more than the Tin Man's, I was rummaging through my medicine box (which is essentially a shoebox with loads of stuff) and I'm surprised at the amount and the variation of things I have in there. Antibiotics with Arabic instructions from Egypt when I had food poisoning, Codeine from Copenhagen, Imodium from Indonesia, Calpol (it was all that was available) from China, and various other bits.

Oh, and a Suppository from La Pharmacie sur Seine.

So, my mum rang and after whinging for a bit to her about how crap I felt she asked me if I had any suppositories. So I checked, and I found one. Now my mum used to be a nurse and swears by them, so I decided to try it out.

Now I feel amazing. All the aches have diminished (not quite completely gone) and my head is clearer.

I'm going to stock up next time I'm in France, along with wine, cheese and garlic.

All known to be Very Good For You...

I Can't Believe Its...

... happened to me.

I am Ill, with a capital 'i'.

Other half probably gave it to me, but then again I could have picked it up from anywhere, with loads of people coughing and spluttering and sneezing and with the profusion of virions and bacteria dancing around, suspended in mid air while they happily exchange their DNA/RNA and mutate into Gay-Threatening lifeforms.

I have been at home, all day. Not even the usual 'just nip out for a video' because I am so cold...

I wish I'd bought shares in Beechams now.